Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
This isn't mine either. It's a hotel. A temporary place to stay. No different than waking up after a one-night stand.
But it is different.
It's Daisy.
"Holden?" Her eyes meet mine. "Are you okay?"
"Sunstroke," I say.
"You supposedly have an idea."
"Doesn't sound like me."
Her smile spreads over her cheeks. She's a little flushed, but it's from the sun, not from anything I've said. "I was thinking the same thing." She motions to the fridge. "Oliver got milk?"
"Yeah."
"And you… brought chai?"
I nod. "Ariel's blend."
"So…"
Fuck, that's it. "We'll compete."
"We will?"
"Yeah. See who makes the best chai." I push off the table. Close the space between us.
She stays put for a moment. Stays pressed against the counter.
My body brushes hers, my crotch against hers, my hand against her wrist.
Then she turns sideways, so her chest brushes my chest, my arm.
She motions it's all yours.
I find the chai in the top cabinet. Place it on the counter. Fill the kettle with water.
"How are we competing here?" She takes two steps toward me. "We use the same hot water? See who gets the right ratio?"
"You have another idea?"
"Well, how can we make it fair? With only one kettle? If I let you do everything first, your tea will be cold by the time mine is done."
"I trust you. To be honest."
"So you make yours, we taste it, decide how good it is."
I nod yeah.
"Then I make mine, we taste it, decide if it's better?"
"You don't like it?"
Her brow furrows with concentration. "I think at the same time is better. So both teas are fresh."
"And we'll vote ourselves?"
"Yeah. But blind." She rises to her tiptoes to open a cabinet and pull out two identical mugs. "Give me a second."
I nod sure.
She moves out of the kitchen. Goes to her bag. Pulls out a tiny notebook—pastel pink, of course—and a pen. She removes a sheet. Tears it in half. Scribbles something on each side.
"You took paper to the beach?" I ask.
She nods yeah as she hands me a paper with Holden in a neat cursive font. "I take paper everywhere."
"Why?"
"In case I have something I want to write down."
I can't help but laugh. "That's the kind of thing I would say."
"A non-answer?" She places her sheet—Daisy in that same neat handwriting—on the counter. Places the cup on top of it. Tries to slide both.
It works. Mostly.
I copy the gesture. It's not the neatest—the paper clearly drags—but it will do the trick.
Though—
I open one of the drawers. Find a roll of tape.
"Thanks. That's perfect." Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. She's careful about taping the sheets of paper to the bottom of each mug.
It matters to her, this contest being fair.
Even though it's silly. A game. A way to set her at ease.
She's concentrating, but she isn't tense. I guess she is at ease. And she does love tea.
It's on the chocolate level of suppressed desire—less, probably, since there's all this cultural bullshit about chocolate being sinful—but it's something.
"What is it you want to write?" I finish filling the kettle. Place it on the stove. Turn the burner to high.
"Thoughts." Her eyes meet mine. "Ideas, I guess. I thought I wanted to be a writer for a while."
"But?"
"I hate everything I write."
"That's normal."
"Is it?" Her eyes flit to her bag then they're back on me. "It's never good enough."
"It never is. At first. You should see the shit I drew in high school." I shudder at the thought of my shitty comic book rip-offs. Not the place to learn anatomy. At least not female anatomy. "You can't imagine how bad it was."
"How did you get past it?"
I chuckle. "Well, at the time, I thought it was the tits."
Her cheeks flush. "Really?"
"For a while, yeah. At some point, I realized it sucked."
"Was it that bad?"
"Yeah."
Her eyes meet mine. "I don't believe you."
"You're trying to distract me from our tea."
She motions to the kettle. "I'm waiting."
Fair point. But—"I can prove it." Shit, I can, but I don't want to. There are things I prefer to keep to myself. My art—not the stuff I do for clients, the stuff I do for me—is at the top of the list.
And that's the good shit I draw now.
The personal and terrible art from high school—
No way.
"Fuck, I need something in exchange," I say.
Her eyes fix on me. "You need something in exchange for proving your point?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe you should just admit you're wrong?" Her voice gets light. "It seems like you're capable. Usually."
"I'm wrong a lot. But not about this." It's weird. I want to show her. I want her to pore over my notebooks, to trace the lines with her fingertips, to somehow absorb what it means.
I want her to understand what it means. To accept it. To accept me.
I never want that.
It's not worth the risk. When you let someone in, you give them the chance to hurt you. And even if they don't, if they love you with their entire heart, they still leave.